I Don’t Like Mincing Peas

Baby Summer in her chair. Food in her hair. Mama with a

little spoon, dancing 'round the room. Open wide, here it comes.

Tap, tap, tap on the drums. Green on the

plate, brown in a heap. Summer makes a face and starts

to beep. She says, "I don't like mincing peas. No,

thank you, not for me." She shakes her head, she taps her

knees. "I don't like mincing peas. Maybe carrots, maybe cheese.

I just don't like mincing peas." Grandpa tries his flying plane,